


When Glory Comes

by Eshnoazot



Series: Ineffable Bureaucracy [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ableism, Aziraphale and Crowley are PANICKING, Beelzebub was Raphael, Coping Mechanisms, Cottagecore, Crowley isn’t Raphael CONCEPT just trust me on this, Gabriel IS the patron saint of stamp collectors, Gabriel is a celestial post man, Gabriel’s perspective, Germophobia, Ineffable Bureaucracy, New Starts, Other, Poorly dealing with trauma, Raphael is Beelzebub’s deadname, Raphael is historically the Patron saint of Happy Meetings, Religious Conflict, Religious Undertones, Starting Fresh, Thai Food, The names you choose are MORE important than the Names chosen for you, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), asserting boundaries, baberiel, building a healthy relationship is hard, but it DOESN’T MATTER, contracts and negotiations, deadnaming, just two trauma-stricken people who are coping, meta? In my tags? It’s more common than you think, pigeon - Freeform, pre-fall conversations, there isn’t a good/bad dynamic packaged neatly for you folks, when its never been modelled for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: Michael has told him who Beelzebub had been before they Fell.Gabriel’s mind cannot possibly comprehend what to do next.Beelzebub's fist lands square on Gabriel’s jaw, and he can only squeak from surprise as another smashes his nose back into his face.They are both sobbing when the dust clears.





	When Glory Comes

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a proverb, "When Glory Comes, memory departs."

It is Wednesday.

Gabriel is fracturing apart at the seams, caught in an endless programming loop of syntax errors and logic errors, and his very soul is violently throwing up run-time errors. The information caught in his soul can’t compile, but he keeps trying to divide by zero anyway – caught in an _endless_ loop. It feels like _torture_ feels like something that he needs to viscerally remove from his being. He needs to metaphysically vomit, void any trace of the information from existence, and he has been shaking for hours and centuries.

He has been given a new _fact _to hold in his hands in wonder.

Michael had meant it as a _kindness_ because a new and dangerous thought is being whispered in the hallways of Heaven: what if _some_ _Demons _can be _redeemed_? What if they can be _forgiven_, what if they can _repent_? What if their friendships with Angels were an extended hand, were open arms to welcome them back _home_? Perhaps, all they ever needed were a reminder of what was within their reach, what if the war promised, was less physical and more _spiritual_? Therefore, Heaven has approved the paperwork for his friendship with Beelzebub, because they are starting to believe in _proselytizing_ to Demons. It feels like a new form of war that can’t possibly lead to anything good. It feels like driving down the wrong path, and Gabriel knows that it won’t work, not in the way Heaven wishes it to work.

Demons created Democracy, and Heaven created Autocracies (or maybe _She_ did, it’s a little vague). There is nothing inherently Demonic in democracy, and they have been tasked to protect it from harm in some cases. If something Hell-forged has become Holy enough to demand the guiding light of Angels –

Gabriel’s mind_ frizzes_.

He starts again.

It feels like there is _supposed_ to be a balance in the universe: that maybe Demons played an important role, just as _Angels did_. It’s blasphemy. It’s _dangerous_. Nothing had been this complicated before the Antichrist refused to take his rightful inheritance. When the child had done the wrong thing for the right reasons. When an Angel and a Demon, ancestral enemies, had both taken his hand and stood by his side. Gabriel’s own hand aches with the absence of another-

Gabriel is starting to think a lot of things lately, but he cannot shake the blind faith that curls around his heart. Michael had_ told_ him, but Uriel had discovered it, and Sandalphon had researched it to confirm its validity. They had caught him just before the escalator to Earth and drawn him into a joyous hug. Michael had drawn him close: wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered the information into his ear. Michael had tear tracks down her face, and her heart is swelling with the belief that he will bring a lost Angel _home_ and cleanse them of their sins.

Michael had told him who Beelzebub had been before they _Fell_.

Gabriel’s mind cannot possibly comprehend what to do next.

Gabriel has handled the bookings for the ‘best friend ritual’ meeting, which has required a whole process of buying a _‘smartphone’_ to download an _‘application’_, to allow him to book a cottage on an ‘Airbnb’, across the road from where Aziraphale and Crowley conduct their own ‘best friend’ rituals. The garden out the front is lively and overgrown with healing plants: carrot, celery, cinquefoil, dill, fennel, fenugreek, fern, lavender, marjoram, palm, and vervain. There is an almond tree, dormant, by the side fence, a gigantic rowan which is looking sickly, and a mulberry which has been stripped back recently with a chainsaw. There are mice living in the underbrush who quiver when Gabriel draws nearer to their nest of young, so he gives them a wide berth out of respect for God’s sinless creatures.

The former Principality known as Aziraphale and former Demon Crowley keep peeking out the front window, through truly _ugly_ lace curtains, in order to gape and generally look rather panicked by the whole situation. Crowley had once been the Angel known as Raziel – was there any wonder why the former Angel of mysteries and keeper of secrets had Fallen to _reveal_ them? Gabriel can’t possibly reconcile the memories he has with the Demon: cannot recognise them at all-

But _Beelzebub_-

Gabriel’s mind flickers and reboots again.

The Demon and Angel across the cul-de-sac are more terrified than even the mice, which warms _something_ deep within his chest until he can feel his many celestial mouths humming a happy tune. Their panic is inconsequential – _the location_ of the _consumption_ of the _Thai cuisine_, as well as the _time and date_, might be just as important to the _sanctity_ of the whole situation, and Gabriel is not prepared to take any chances in such an important matter. Still, Gabriel meanders by the front garden pond, pretending to admire the diseased fish, and casting tiny looks across the road to see the two idiots dive out of sight in a flail of limbs.

The front door is painted a garish tangerine, with an iron cross nailed to the centre of the door.

The Thai Food has already been ordered from the same place that Crowley and Aziraphale order their own – but there is no standard order to replicate. Every week they have ordered something new, and conscious of the promise to Beelzebub, he has ordered exactly one (1) Red Thai Curry, and as per Beelzebub’s hastily faxed over order, scrawled on a used napkin – one (1) _Pla ra_ and one (1) _Yam Pla Dook Foo_, alongside a whole litre of Mountain Dew. All these items were not offered on the menu yesterday and had miraculously appeared on their menu just in time for Gabriel to order the dishes, which sound just as appealing as carving his own wings off his back.

The cottage smells like chamomile, lemongrass, and sandalwood.

It is not together unpleasant, but something is twisting in Gabriel’s mind: something long forgotten that is desperately trying to throw itself to the forefront of his mind. It feels like a remnant of the war, something so ugly and mournful that he has cast it from his mind in despair. It feels like his heart being clawed out from his chest, and scar tissue hastily patching it back together again. It feels like _intuition_ and _instinct_, and though it feels so innately sad, it feels wistful at the edges. It feels like the wafting of a perfume worn by a long-dead mother, the first singing of birds after the silence of winter, and the first cry of a child after a silence.

Beelzebub will not be here for another ten minutes, and so Gabriel can do nothing but stare blankly at the walls. The paint is somewhere between a green and a yellow; it reminds him of yellow calcite and green agate, although stripped of their brilliance and shine. The walls are dirty, and the aluminum of the windows is speckled with flakes of rust. All human abodes are substandard in one way or another, but he has been reading up on the construction of cottages just in case Beelzebub wishes to make a conversation of the topic. Something is vibrating deep within his mind, and he is growing more and more anxious for the lack of recall _why_.

He has half a mind to draw salt lines on the windowsills to prevent them from reneging on their promise to stay through the whole tradition. He can’t honestly tell if Beelzebub didn’t want to _be loved_, didn’t want to be loved _by him_, or just didn’t want to discuss the matter due to the inherent conflict between demonship and affection. In either case, salted window lines probably wouldn’t go down well, unless of course, Beelzebub is charmed by the rudeness of the act.

Once upon a time, there had been an Angel who had always been surrounded by non-stinging flies.

They had been called to stir the water at the Healing pools of Bethesda, even before Humans were a conception. The Archangel who had walked to the left of Michael, with Gabriel on the right. They had been an Archangel, a Healer, someone who willingly chose to cause pain for the sake of healing but vowed _to do no harm_. A war had broken out, over the initial blueprints of humanity-

-_I will not preside over all the diseases and all the wounds of the humans. I will be a party to no harm. I refuse to take this role demanded of me._

Over the hierarchy of Heaven-

_-If She created Lucifer to be Perfect, and he is unfit to be a God, then what does that make Her?_

Over the creation of weaker, lesser Angels-

_-Why has she created them to be more vulnerable, with less power, with less agency? Why does She fear us?_

Over the demand of Blind Faith.

_-She knows everything we do, everything We think. Why does She expect that we must give Her Blind Faith when she has never given that to us? _

Gabriel – _really_ can’t tell how they would respond to that memory.

It is the second hour of the night, and although most of the world no longer calculates the time in the same way they once had, it is _important_ for Gabriel to know. When Beelzebub arrives, it will be the third hour. That hour once belonged to them. The Thai food will arrive before the 71 minutes of the traditional hour will be up, and certainly within the 60 minutes of the ‘Thai Food delivery driver’s food window’. A miracle will have it there as soon as possible, although Gabriel loathes using divine intervention for the delivery of human consumables.

The panic increases.

Gabriel can feel Beelzebub drawing closer, something _familiar_ and _beckoning_ in their celestial presence. There is no way to tell apart a Demon or Angel because good and evil do not leave residues on the spirit: celestials are not colour-coded, though they may make jokes about feeling the presence of evil. There is only the innately familiar (those who you sang with, in the celebrations and praise of Heaven, and those who did _not_). It is very easy to tell who you recognise, and those who chose to forsake the love and forgiveness of Heaven. Beelzebub is becoming more familiar though; they feel like a long-lost friend, and now Gabriel can place who they once were: they feel like someone who was once very dear and could so easily be dear again.

_Perhaps_, Beelzebub can be _redeemed_, can be _forgiven_ and return in glory.

There are conflicting accounts on whether Demons remember their names and places amongst the glory of Heaven however; they do not keep records of the Fallen. Beelzebub is powerful and ranks transferred over in Hell: power remained even where memories might not have. There is, inscribed in the great records of Heaven, the names of all Angels who ever sung a song of praise, and it could be easily matched between those who _answer_ the call of their names and those who do _not_. All Demons could be restored to their rightful place if Heaven willed it so.

Gabriel entertains the thought briefly and casts it aside to sit in his peripheral thoughts.

Beelzebub does _not_ knock on the door or press the cheery doorbell when they arrive, climbing through the rock and soil and _bones_ of the earth. Out the window, he watches Beelzebub dust themselves off, and stare at the cottage across the road. They catch the movements of Crowley and Aziraphale drawing their thicker curtains shut tight – but both idiots are trying to peak out at the sides and the movement is enough to _draw_ Beelzebub’s notice. Beelzebub lets out a snicker; he can see their shoulders shaking slightly, and he turns to open the door for them before they distract themselves with tormenting the two.

He only made it to the entryway, just in time to see Beelzebub plant a booted foot on the door and kick the door down. The hinges pop out with a groan of pressured metal, and the screws go flying, bouncing off his forehead with a popping sound. Flakes of tangerine paint are floating gently in the air and breaking apart to scatter on the floor. Beelzebub _grins_, and steps over the door before Gabriel can frown at the needless destruction, then huff at the loss of his security deposit.

_Raphael would never have done that._

“Gabriel, such a _pleasure_,” Beelzebub cheerfully announced, “To see your dumb face looking so _very _bewildered by simple human mechanics always warms the coal mine of my heart.”

Around their neck is his prized scarf. It is encrusted with snot and soot, mysterious stains and cheese powder dust. Gabriel pauses at the sight, for just a second, before deciding that he can’t possibly be _seeing what he is seeing_. It must have been a Demonic glamour intended to confuse and upset him. Beelzebub (Raphael) has become quite the prankster.

“The door was unlocked,” Gabriel responds _dryly_, “You could have opened it.”

“I _did_,” Beelzebub responded with a smug smile, and then hops into the living room with a pep in their step, “I can’t smell my dinner, birdbrain. Surely even your flying rat-sized mind could remember my order when I so _carefully_ took to ordering it.”

Gabriel sighed, and then hefted the door back to its place, miraculing the hinges and screws back into place. Crowley and Aziraphale are still looking out the window in matching horror, looking paler than either of them had ever been. Raphael had once looked so pale, standing under the new light of Betelgeuse, singing blue light into its ray. Raphael had been so excited as they explained their plan: ultraviolet light would strengthen bones and make plants flourish. Gabriel hadn’t properly understood it, beyond an act of biological praise. The memory is painful, and Aziraphale and Crowley are still _looking_.

Gabriel makes sure to wave cheerfully.

“The food _has_ been ordered,” Gabriel grumbles back when the door is repaired. A frown is settling into place, and he doesn’t like the frown lines that are starting to mar his corporations smooth and handsome face. He flashes a smile into the mirror on the wall to cheer himself up just a little, before remembering that he needs to at least make a token effort to be mad at Beelzebub.

“I could have _not_ ordered it,” He announces, and checks his face to make sure it is properly mad-looking, “As per the Heaven-Hell paperwork agreement we wrote in that Mesopotamian art gallery- “

“It was a _pleasure palace_\- “

“It had _statues_\- “

“_Nude ones_,” Beelzebub yelled back, and Gabriel watches the reflection of his own face but just can’t muster up anything but cheer that Beelzebub has decided to come, needless destruction aside.

He tries to frown, but his eyes are filled with relief: it’s very inconvenient. Gabriel is panicking just a little, about who Beelzebub once was, who they are now, what they could be in the future. Somehow, Gabriel feels better knowing that they are here with him now: they are a comfort.

“_All statues _were _nude_ in the beginning,” Gabriel defended himself, “They didn’t learn to carve cloth until later.”

Beelzebub snickers and Gabriel is reminded that Beelzebub had a roll in the creation of both nudist sex cults and sweatshop clothing before they were relegated to a desk job. Beelzebub always stacks the deck in their own favour; it’s incredibly clever even though they’re _morally bankrupt_. Gabriel hates the fact that he admires them a little for it and hates the fact he might be lying when he says ‘_he hates the fact’ _that he does admire them.

Gabriel…._ might_ just straight-up admire them.

“Anyway,” Gabriel calls, and nods to his reflection sharply, “You should have properly signed the document to officiate its authenticity.”

“I _did_,” Beelzebub called from the other room, and there are clanking sounds that don’t _at all sound good_, “I blew my nose on it. Can’t get any more authentic than that: you literally have a piece of _me_ on the form.”

“It was a _napkin_,” Gabriel retorts, sounding a little more offended than he felt, “I would also have appreciated a proper A4 form, as per-“

“Yeah, yeah, _the agreement_, from New Caledonia, right?” Beelzebub retorted, “I often signed my name in blood on forms _before_ then, so what’s the deal with a little snot?”

Gabriel weakly smiled at his reflection and could just feel the sensation of snot under his hands once more. There _is a big difference_, but also, Gabriel doesn’t want to go back to having to deal with Beelzebub’s blood again. The Victorian era was an absolute _blast_ for Beelzebub, aesthetic-wise, given they’d often insisted on the Paris catacombs as a place to enjoy a nice cocktail. It’s not often that they chose to go to Earth, but when they did, they tended to inspire the work of artists and writers, from Lovecraft to Poe, from Tourneur to the creation of the _Danse Macabre_ itself.

Any indication that Gabriel had an opinion on the whole signing with _blood_ concept, was a sure way to have that as the new revival movement that Beelzebub championed. Additionally, demon-blood tended to ignite in Heaven, and take out all their paper records with semi-Hellish fire – not that Beelzebub _knew_ that, _bless the Lord_. If demons found out their blood could be used as bombs, Heaven would be down in a day, due to _flood damage_.

There were some secrets that not even a best friend should know.

“Yes well,” Gabriel faltered as he strode into the living room, “Please use the appropriate and official paperwork next time- “

Beelzebub had a bottle of whiskey in their hand. At the same time Gabriel entered the room, Beelzebub rose the neck of the bottle to their lips and took an enormous bite right through the glass. The glass splintered immediately, sending fragments down Beelzebub’s shirt and onto the floor. They chomped away on the shards of glass, occasionally stopping to throw back an enthusiastic mouthful of the whiskey, while Gabriel watched in utter _horror_.

There wasn’t _usually_ _so much blood_ _involved with_ _eating_ – _right?_

_Why in God’s name did Aziraphale enjoy this so much?_

“Can I tempt you to a drink?” Beelzebub winked, blood staining their teeth, “I brought a bottle of wine I liberated from the catacombs of Paris back in 2017; it tastes like desecration of corpses and honey.”

“I will eat the Red Curry and nothing further,” Gabriel retorted, crossing his arms, “As per our agreement, _Lord Beelzebub_.”

He added the full title, if only because the sight of a willingly bleeding demon was a tad more _unnerving_ when they did it to themselves than when he just stabbed them with the business end of a sword. Beelzebub _preened_ at the use of the full title, giving a bloody and dribbling smile in return that was on the more distant side of chaotic goblin. They had finished the bottle of whiskey, glass and all, when they started to reach for a second, identical bottle that had been shoved down the sides of the couch.

_Perhaps_, Gabriel realised a little worryingly, Beelzebub _was_ into discorporation.

“Can that wait until after the Thai situation has been concluded?” Gabriel retorted, with a long look. Surprisingly, Beelzebub shrugged and set the bottle down on the living room table – then they preceded to pull more bottles out of their suit, and one from within the TV machine itself. They arranged them in neat little rows, like potions on an apothecary shelf, and wiped their mouth on the hem of Gabriel’s scarf while the Angel watched in absolute disgust.

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed at the sight and the air crackled with tension.

“You said you’d _return_ that,” Gabriel huffed, awkwardly standing in the doorway with absolutely no idea what to do, “That was my _favourite_ scarf – I’m never going to be able to get the metaphysical presence of demon blood from the fibers now.”

“It’s got _worse_ bodily fluids on it,” Beelzebub replied, and then blew their nose loudly, smearing blood up their face and popping a boil on the wipe, “Did you think I was going to _launder_ it for you? Scent it with _vanilla and kisses_? Throw a peppermint on top of the pile in _gratitude_?”

Gabriel’s eye twitched, and he took a stabilising breath.

It was his favourite scarf, and it had been draped around his neck for centuries. It had caused a pang in his heart to let it go, to allow Beelzebub a trophy to maintain their place in Hell. He would _grieve _its loss but would never be able to scrub his skin enough to remove the feeling of snot and pus and cheese dust against his body. Explaining that to Beelzebub, explaining why _a Demon doing A Bad Thing Was Hurtful To Him_ – it would be as useful as carving out his own heart and giving it to them.

He could only do one foolish thing per millennium.

“I have been _reading_,” Gabriel replied with a grin that was _much too wide_; a feeling of anxiousness curled in his heart, “On the architect of cottages within the South Downs area, specifically those built between the 13th century and the early Georgian period- “

“What’s that?” Beelzebub cooed with a hiss in their words, “Can’t face the fact that I’m not your _God-damned friend_. I’m not _kind_, I’m not _nice_, and I’m certainly not _pleasant_. You don’t like the fact that _your precious scarf is covered in my blood_?”

“This area is geographically complex,” Gabriel replied, eyes affixed to a pale green-yellow wall, “with malmstone, ironstone, clay, and greensands, as well as the chalk that you’d expect.”

“And _my sweat_,” Beelzebub’s smile was _cruel_. Their fingers were starting to ball up into fists which were starting to shake.

Gabriel swallowed deeply, “-_Thus_ most human structures are _timber_ framed- “

“And my _tears_.”

Gabriel stopped and shut his mouth so hard his teeth clacked together painfully. He paused for a second, to roll those words around his brain carefully, inspecting them and triple-checking in duplicate, before peering curiously at Beelzebub who looked a little shocked that they had said those words.

“You’ve been crying Beelz?”

Beelzebub scoffed, at the clear surprise (and worry) and looked away. Gabriel could feel his alarm growing, and his hand twitching for a sword. Few problems couldn’t be solved with a little celestial steel, in Gabriel’s experience.

“_Lord Beelzebub,”_ Gabriel corrected, “You’ve been _crying_?”

“Crying from the sight of your _stupid face_,” Beelzebub retorted, though there was an _odd_ tone, “It’s too horrific for even _me_ to bear: _no fucking wonder_ you have to announce to the humans: _do not be afraid_. I’d be absolutely terrified if I saw _your_ lopsided nose and receding hairline lumbering toward me.”

Gabriel let the words hang for just a moment, before nodding. Beelzebub looked a little relieved, which made Gabriel draw his eyebrows closer in utter _bafflement._

“When’s the grub getting here anyway?” Beelzebub complained, and flung themselves on the couch. The change from vulnerability to outright brash demands gave Gabriel whiplash for a moment. Beelzebub’s head shook in warning and speckles of blood hit the crisp white material and immediately created a stronghold, while Gabriel glanced toward the Heavens for strength. Beelzebub’s form was tight with tension, on the very edge of a flight reflex that just needed the slightest stimuli to have them shooting off into parts unknown with nary a backward glance.

“_Soon_,” Gabriel replied, and sent a little Heavenly miracle to delay the driver. Carefully he took the seat next to them and could feel the awkwardness starting to grow thick in the air. _Something_ needed to be said, needed to be _done_, but Gabriel hadn’t the slightest idea what that was.

“Michael usually starts our meeting with a little icebreaker, would you like to try one?” He offered as genially as possible. Gabriel folded his hands in his lap but couldn’t quite look at Beelzebub: they felt too fragile, and Gabriel could remember the feeling of a sword in his hand more clearly than anything else.

Gabriel could remember watching while Raphael _Fell._

“Nah,” Beelzebub shrugged, “Climate Change is mostly self-propelling now, not much point breaking a little ice at this stage.”

Gabriel’s eye twitched a little more, until it was in a full-blown _spasm_.

“I’m sure it’s because Hell is trying to build a new extension somewhere?” Gabriel drawled, “A nice sunroom for guests perhaps?”

“More like a second storey.”

“Hmm,” Gabriel responded non-committedly, “Heaven will always be there to thwart you, foul demon.”

“That’s _certainly such a threat_,” Beelzebub responded, “From the Patron Saint of _Stamp Collectors_.”

Gabriel gave a choking noise, “I’m the Patron saint of _messengers_, actually.”

“And Stamp collectors,” Beelzebub helpfully reinforced, “Also all kinds of broadcasting from broadcasting and telecommunications – you’re doing so well at that, considering we have a whole wing in Hell just for the TV executives.”

Gabriel glowered, “You would be surprised just how many members of the Satanic church end up in _Heaven_.”

He wanted to ask, _ask_ if Beelzebub had confessed something painful, something that deeply hurt them enough to trigger tears. Had they been crying? It didn’t sound like a joke, just something revealed in a moment of momentum. But Demons were devious and cruel, Demon were liars and cheats. But – the more he stole glances of Beelzebub’s face, the less he felt like asking was the right way to approach this situation. They were perhaps a little more pale than usual, perhaps a little more guarded – but _yes_, if Gabriel looked closely, he could see salt stains left by falling tears on the scarf around Beelzebub’s neck.

Gabriel was a messenger by nature, be that message by mouth or messenger by sword. He certainly wasn’t great at writing messages or interpreting them– or other things outside his purpose – although he managed. What he needed, was an angel of healing, but there hadn’t been one since-

_Raphael_.

Gabriel could feel the air grow icy cold in his lungs.

“That’s rich, coming from you anyway,” Gabriel says before he can stop himself, “Considering that you’re the Patron Saint of Happy Meetings, _Raphael_.”

The universe is silent for a single horrifying second.

Gabriel realises he has made a _mistake_.

The planets stop turning, the songs of Heaven cease, a thousand black holes burst into being, and Gabriel is overcome with a sense of alarm and dismay. It is _unnatural_, it is the sound of monstrosity and apathy creeping ever nearer, and Beelzebub slowly turns their head with a face that is completely blank. Gabriel and Beelzebub stare at each other for what might have been an eternity, but it is Gabriel who turns his face away first.

“_That’s not my name_,” Raphael insists, and Gabriel peers back to see them inhaling air into their lungs slowly. It starts off as a calming measure, but the sound feels like razorblades gliding across Gabriel’s wings. His mind has reset again, but the new data is logged and filed away. In his soul there is a new feeling; something that feels like the aftermath of betrayal and Gabriel has found himself clutching a dagger buried deep in their chest in shock.

“_It is_,” Gabriel says, “And it could be yours again, _Raphael_, if you’ll _come home_.”

It is why the cottage seemed so right, the scents, the colours, the herbs, the plants – all symbols of Raphael’s Grace. This cottage is a memorial to Raphael’s artistry, to their creation, to their kindness and healing. It is the perfect place to remind Raphael to come back home, to forsake the Hell they have suffered. It is a place of rebirth, a place of _Rising_.

Raphael’s first expression is one of absolute _surprise_, a genuine expression of _bewilderment_ and _disbelief_. They seem to taste the emotion for a little, turning it over and examining it, and Beelzebub has no idea what to do with it. When Gabriel dares to look back, they have moved through to a face that is paralysed, eyes wide open and lips parted-

And then their fist lands square on Gabriel’s jaw, and he can only squeak from surprise as another smashes his nose back into his face. The bones buckle and break, blood comes gushing out, and Gabriel can feel swelling and bruises starting to form. He has to duck and roll to avoid an avalanche of limbs being thrown in absolute rage.

The TV goes through a fucking window, the couch is upturned, and the table is splintered into a thousand pieces. The entire time, the Prince of Hell is screaming in Enochian, Sumerian, Avestan, Etruscan, Luwian, Moabite, Phoenician, Scythian, Philistine, Aequian, Volscian. It is filthy, it is foul – the words are an _accusation against God_, against the Heavens. They are a cannister of centuries of torment exploding into a self-contained apocalypse. The languages shift and move, obscene swears and vulgar curses are paired with destruction as they _launch_ themselves at Gabriel and end up clawing the walls when he dodges. The bottles of whiskey and wine collide with the back of his knees as he retreats to the hallway – and finds that the rampaging Demon does not follow.

They are _sobbing_.

Gabriel’s heart is beating a million times an hour as he stands in the hallway. He doesn’t dare to make a single sound until the feral sounds of anguish and rage have subsided into silence. The silence is a thousand times worse, and Gabriel can feel his body as cold as stone. He stares down at his hands and can feel himself shaking but can’t convince a single muscle to move.

Has Raphael been _overcome_ with the realisation that they would be welcomed home? That forgiveness and mercy would be granted to them – that they might be able to sing in the choirs once more? Gabriel had extended the hand, opened his arms, although they quiver and shake with uncertainty.

“Why are _you_ crying you fucking prick,” They call, and Gabriel doesn’t believe it until he catches sight of his own reflection in the mirror. He _has_ been crying, but he must reach up to his own cheek to wipe them away before the information becomes fact. The tears have mixed in with the blood from his nose, and there are claw marks across his cheek that surprise him so faintly it might not have even been a thought. He looks destroyed, a soldier limping home from a battle, returning to an empty home with no one to tend his wounds.

“I can hear you crying, you absolutely useless pigeon,” The voice is still angry, but resigned, “Get your arse back in here now.”

Gabriel does because it seems like his muscles just needed permission to work. When he enters, the room has been gutted; drywall is exposed, and a whole wall is now nothing but splinters and shreds of wallpaper. Not a single piece of furniture has escaped Beelzebub’s attention; there are deep claw marks in the floorboards, and the rust has infected the aluminum sliding until it is buckling under the stain. The couch is missing one side; split in half almost down the middle, and a mess of black hair and outdated suits is perched on the edge of the couch with blood dripping down their face. He’s a little glad that they didn’t conjure up any Hellfire: that seems like it would be a little expensive.

“_How long_ have you _known_?”

_The message inside those words: Have you always known? Have you been waiting for a chance to hurt me?_

“Michael told me a few hours ago.”

_The message back: I promise I haven’t been waiting. I promise this is something new. I promise I will never do this again. I’m sorry I hurt you._

Their eyes meet, and they have both been crying. Their eyes meet and it is torture.

“Hmm,” _Beelzebub_’s? _Raphael_’s black hair is covered in the dusty white powder of plaster, and they have never looked so miserable, “How did she know? Who knows?”

“The Hall of Records,” Gabriel replies, “Pravuil certainly knows, but cares for nothing but records. Michael told me, Uriel and Sandalphon also know. Ranks transferred over in the _Schism_. Few Archangels fell, and you have called yourself the Demon of disease and illness and flies for a very long time.”

Gabriel feels hopelessly lost in the divide that always feels like it is growing wider, and much more treacherous. The silence is growing until it is choking, and Gabriel takes a few more tenuous steps closer. His mind is swirling with new information, that _Beelzebub hates him_, that _Beelzebub might leave and never return._

“_I’m not Raphael_,” They say, as Gabriel sits cross-legged on the floor, “Even if I was known as that name, once upon a time. It isn’t me now. _I don’t want it_.”

Gabriel startles.

Beelzebub narrows their eyes, they are shaking too, but this time it is _directed_. It is pointed, it is the creation of rules and order for their continued friendship. It is the marking of a boundary with immovable rocks that define what is mine and what is yours. It is a demand for respect, a demand for recognition, a demand for freedom. It is an ultimatum: _I will not tolerate this_.

It is also an open hand, arms opened wide – not to proselytize, but to make a new understanding. It’s more than Gabriel could hope for: Beelzebub has not _left_.

“Why not?”

“_It’s not who I am_,” Beelzebub returns with a frown, “You threw me out, you don’t get to decide that I have to return, and the terms on which I have to return under. You’re working on _my terms_ now. My terms are that my name is _Lord Beelzebub_, I am a Prince of Hell, I am a Demon and I will never _forsake what I stand for, what I believe in_ – _not even for you,_ Archangel Gabriel.”

Gabriel lets out a breath that he had been holding, and the tension slips from his being.

“I’m sorry,” He says, because it has to be put into words, “I shouldn’t have-_not like that_.”

“What happened to not talking during the Thai Food situation?” Beelzebub retorts sharply and then slips off the couch to join him on the floor, their eyes are focused on the floor. They are prying a thick splinter of wood free, and it breaks off in their hands like the top of a spear. Beelzebub inspects it, and then uses it to pick something from their teeth: a scrap of fabric with a line of stuffing. Some stitching comes free later, and finally a furniture staple.

“I’m sorry too – by the way,” Beelzebub says, once their sharp teeth have been picked clean.

Gabriel’s eyebrows furrow.

Beelzebub has _nothing to apologise for_.

“Your scarf,” Beelzebub replies, a little uncomfortable, “I wanted to make a statement, that I’m not just another underling you can order around. _I do what I want, when I want_. I fought for that. I sacrificed for that. _I was discarded and thrown away from Heaven for that_. You can’t make me like you; you can’t domesticate me like a rat. I’m not Crowley. You’re not Aziraphale. It – _It was still unacceptable_ that I damaged your possession to make fun of your uptight germophobic avoidance of bodily fluids.”

It stings a little, and when Gabriel touches the scarf, he finds that the stains have been ripped from the fabric with demonic energy. Yet Beelzebub cannot be made undamaged by a demonic miracle. Nor an Angelic one.

Beelzebub extends the scarf, and Gabriel takes it in his hands. They are still shaking, but his hands still as their hands _touch_. Beelzebub allows it for a few seconds before they pull their hand back. Gabriel beams at the affection and he relaxes even more. Beelzebub does not allow casual touches to those they don’t hold in some measure of esteem. It is undamaged, unblemished, but it smells like Beelzebub. He inhales as he returns it around his neck. Beelzebub is watching him with dark eyes that have always seemed more clever than cruel.

“I asked you to allow me to love you,” Gabriel starts, hesitantly testing the water, “Not- not who you used to be. Not – _not Raphael_. You, Beelzebub. I- _I would still like permission to love you_.”

Beelzebub is quiet, and then shuffles closer, and drapes one of Gabriel’s arms around their shoulders. They do so, like it is a normal occurrence, like it isn’t something momentous and completely new in this universe, like Gabriel’s universe isn’t in a horrible state of flux and change – but then he catches their eyes, and he is not alone. Beelzebub too is lost without guideposts, in an endless desert. Perhaps they will wander together, for 40 years before they are found.

Gabriel stares in wonder and surprise, overwhelmed by the sensation and trust, and suddenly he is crying again.

“I delayed the delivery man,” Beelzebub admits, stiffly “Little demonic power. We needed to talk.”

Gabriel tightens his lips, “Me too.”

Beelzebub stops and looks at him sideways while Gabriel’s lips twitch.

Suddenly, Beelzebub is snickering, “Well, that’s rough.”

Gabriel hears the sound and suddenly he is laughing, and Beelzebub is laughing so much and the two of them are rocking side by side in the utter hilarity of the situation. They are both crying, and emotions have been leeched from their bodies, and all that is left is a hollowness that’s the death throes of laughter. Nothing makes sense, nothing is what it should have been, and the two are clutching each other through the chaos of it all.

They’ll be okay.

Just when they have gotten themselves under control, Beelzebub snickers – and they can both see a delivery driver putting up outside the cottage. When he gets out, he is staring at the broken window – which, considering the lack of glass, is just a hole in the wall.

“I’ll get it,” Beelzebub replies and stands to fetch it. Gabriel is still laughing as the delivery driver all but sprints away, when he catches sight of a bleeding, powdery demon grinning widely with too many teeth in their mouth. Though he clearly has two bags in his backseat, and Aziraphale has cautiously opened the front door to greet him, the delivery driver speeds off so quickly that there are marks left on the bitumen and the scent of burning rubber in the air. Beelzebub is edging on unbridled glee when they return, and awkwardly sit down beside Gabriel – he lifts his arm and they return to the position, with a look that says they will _never_ ask for this. It may only be accepted if offered.

Beelzebub is delighted by their Thai order but hesitates when their hands touch the Thai Red Curry.

“You’re not eating this,” They decide, and then amend their own words, “You _don’t have_ to eat it. It was going to be really funny – it’s incredibly spicy and makes you cough and splutter. I ate the whiskey earlier to trick you into also eating the plastic container. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

Gabriel eyes the plastic and can’t muster up anything but disgust for the food inside. It all smells and looks like sludge: from colourful candies and pre-packaged meals to vibrant fruits and thinly-sliced fish. His stomach turns at the idea of putting it into his body, a sort of dormant horror that makes him feel a little nauseous and sick. He can’t explain why it’s so abhorrent: all matter is unclean, and it bothers him that the solids and liquids are masticated into mush – not to mention the dirt and oils and bacteria.

Now a choice has been presented to him – _he doesn’t want to eat it_. He has never consumed anything before, except for the passive receiving of Divine Grace, and permitting something foreign into his being makes him blanche and gag on air. He has absolutely no instinct, no desire in the slightest, but he did make a _promise_ that he would, just for Beelzebub’s company.

“_Not even for me_,” Beelzebub adds, as if they know his thoughts, “I won’t hold you to anything. I despise nicknames_, Beelzebub is my name_. You despise bodily fluids and food, that’s fine. Right?”

“It’s fine,” Gabriel responds, “Crying is okay though, I think.”

“All bodily fluids - except crying is okay,” Beelzebub amends.

They sit there for a very long moment, Beelzebub mixes their fermented fish dish with the red curry, and then chews on a crispy catfish and green mango salad. They add Mountain Dew over the top like a cursed dressing, but also chug the foul-smelling syrup so Gabriel really doesn’t know if the liquid is meant as a condiment or a drink.

Knowing the human propensity to create rules, simply to break them, it might have been both.

“I want to propose a new paperwork agreement,” Gabriel says, and he is so nervous he can’t help but smile, “Because I hate eating, and I despise stains – and you hate nicknames. I don’t know what else you hate – but I know what I hate. I’d like to know you.”

“Verbal paperwork,” Beelzebub insists, because they know all too well just how dangerous a physical list of all your fears could be in the universe. Once it is out, it cannot be taken back, “And the good things too. There’s a place in the Levant where I’ve been known to take naps in the sun.”

The offer of information is trust, a peace-branch, a tentative offer to rebuild stronger. It is a form of trust that Gabriel is happy to share in equal measure.

“There’s an island down south where I exercise. I’ve started Boxing and Yoga,” Gabriel is quiet and then, “I _like_ nicknames. You’ve been calling me Pigeon. It’s not _accurate_ at all.”

“Flying rat who seems to be everywhere? Perish the thought,” Beelzebub confirms lightly, with a demonic smile, “I _enjoy_ food. My favourite is surströmming, and century-eggs. Kiviak and hákarl are really good, and casu marzu is _sinful_.”

Gabriel hasn’t the slightest idea what they are, but he will deliver a platter if Beelzebub would like them. Beelzebub is sipping soda but has made a fist with one hand and keeps looking at their fist, as if imagining a boxing glove around them. Gabriel’s smile is growing genuinely happy.

“Look at them,” Beelzebub says, once they have crunched plastic containers into a ball, and thrown it to the side, “Bottom left bay window.”

Across the road, Gabriel can see Crowley and Aziraphale staring across the road. Crowley looks like he is on the verge of a panic attack, Aziraphale looks to be in prayer, if prayer involved pressing his palms to the window in utter horror. Beelzebub snickers and Gabriel is enormously ecstatic to see that the two are having the single worst day they’ve ever had. It feels right, that he and Beelzebub shouldn’t be the only ones suffering.

Maybe the Best Friend Ritual did involve a little suffering.

“I would like to be your Best Friend,” Beelzebub finally decides, and Gabriel cautiously leans into them a little closer, “Although,_ for fuck's sake_, you need to actually learn what a Best Friend _is_, because those two over there are _definitely fucking_.”

Gabriel chokes on the air.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Beelzebub huffs, “If they don’t have _monogrammed bath towels_, I’ll eat my own hat. They look like they’ve been going to Farmer’s Markets and building a wedding registry on the side.”

Gabriel valiantly tries to cast that image from his brain, but it doesn’t help when he can see the two. He reached deep inside for a little Divine intervention and wrenches their curtains firmly closed. Beelzebub wheezes against his side, and without thinking about it, he extends his wings to curl protectively. Beelzebub stops laughing but doesn’t look opposed to the situation – just takes a long draw of Mountain Dew and looks pensive, tucked between muscles and feathers.

It is enough for one meeting, and they sit like this in absolute silence until Beelzebub has finished the bottle of soda and thrown it out the busted window. After a few moments of utter peace, Beelzebub rises and shakes the plaster from their hair.

“Same time, same place next week?”

Gabriel confirms the question without thinking any further, and suddenly Beelzebub is gone. Gabriel is left alone in a broken cottage, and he collapses on the floor in exhaustion. He lays on the floor for hours, wings extended, and arms crossed over his chest before he rises to start the task of fixing what was broken. It is okay, and his heart is singing songs of praise and glory, and he has only a week to _prepare_ and _think_ and _love_.

For the first time, he has a _Best Friend_.


End file.
